


Sine Dolore Actae

by sherrasama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Canon Compliant, Catharsis, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrasama/pseuds/sherrasama
Summary: A month after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter has been so embroiled in legal red tape that he still hasn't even begun to deal with the emotional fallout of everything that transpired that fateful night. To top it off, a new tell-all book about Professor Snape is about to hit the shelves, so Harry has taken it upon himself to clear out his house on Spinner's End before it can be ransacked. Confronted with the remnants of a man he once despised, he finds himself putting the pieces back together.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [NaioKiara](https://naiokiara.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading! Additional Britpicking appreciated.
> 
> This is the first thing I've ever authored that I've posted publicly, so a big thank you for reading. It's very personal to me, but I hope it becomes something for you to enjoy as well. Most of this story is already written but there are parts in the middle to flesh out, so be on the lookout for the remaining chapters I will be posting sporadically.

When Severus became aware, he was very unexpectedly standing outside his own decaying house on the far side of Spinner’s End. It was gray and oppressively foggy, as this awful street usually was, even during the day. His comprehension was foggy as well, as he didn’t know exactly why he was standing here or where he’d come from. It occurred to him through that fog that although there was a steady drizzle falling, he could not feel the rain on his face or his hands. He was about to chance a look at his hands just then, but was interrupted by the sudden whispering of a spell.

_“Cave inimicum.”_ The air around the street rippled briefly, and then several heads popped into existence as though from under an invisible veil.

_“Potter!”_ Severus startled so violently, his voice caught in his throat.

Sure enough, the boy and his friends emerged from under that blasted cloak. They appeared to be unaware of his presence, however, as they glanced around furtively and the Granger girl immediately set to work casting more repelling charms. Potter and Weasley began looking over a handful of documents, talking quietly and not acknowledging that there was anyone else about. Severus would have had a mind to tell them off right then and there, but a horrible realization had come over him. For all their appearance had startled him, he could feel no increase in pulse through his veins. Rather, he could feel no heartbeat to speak of at all within himself. His hand fluttered to his neck impulsively. No wounds…no pulse…no body heat. There was a sensation of _self_ at least, but it was not entirely solid and it carried no weight or warmth that he could discern. 

“Ron, go keep a lookout around the corner. Hermione, you come in with me, but stay near the door. Either of you see anybody, set off a DA coin and then we apparate immediately,” the boy quietly instructed. They both nodded and the Weasley boy took the cloak and pulled it over himself as he slipped into the alleyway. They seemed well-coordinated in all their skulking about, but that was unsurprising, Severus mused through his shock. These three did have a storied history of making his life exceedingly difficult, not to mention the six months they’d spent on the run evading the Snatchers. _At least some good came of Potter’s dubious life skills_ , he sighed wearily. There was no sound from his breath.

Potter and Granger hovered over the front door with the door knob between them, going over a number of unlocking and hex-revealing spells, as if he would be so obvious. With some effort, the door finally snapped open, and the boy started to walk in. Severus, remembering the surprises he’d left behind to dissuade intruders, moved to catch him by the shoulder to stop him, but his grip found no purchase. Fortunately, Granger’s had. 

“This is Professor Snape we’re talking about, Harry! Don’t be so thick!” she hissed.

“…R-Right. Of course.”

Potter stared at the doorway for a few moments, looking shaken for some reason. However it had occurred to him, he seemed to have surmised the nature of Severus’ security, for he flicked his wand in a cutting motion at the entrance, his spell snapping a barely visible trip line that was there. A series of tiny needles were set loose from one side of the doorframe, silently impacting the opposite side of the trim where the wood began to sizzle under the influence of their deadly payload.

“Cozy.” The boy stared placidly at the needles, before finally crossing the threshold into Severus’ family home. Severus felt his body, such as it was, gently tugged along with him.

—

Harry gingerly stepped in with Hermione close behind him, who shut the door once they were fully inside. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Though it wasn’t terribly bright outside, with the sun being held at bay by a thoroughly overcast sky and dense morning fog, it was much gloomier in here. Many of what few, tiny windows had been built into this place were fully or partially obscured by tall bookcases crammed to bursting with all manner of books. Dust-covered blinds were pulled mostly shut across those that were not, letting in only a scant amount of light in thin rays across the sitting room, but it was enough for his purposes. He didn’t want to chance calling attention to themselves with artificial or wand light.

Hermione drew in an excited breath, having already gravitated to a section of Snape’s impressive personal library near the entrance. Harry watched her eyes dart over the titles, but he was feeling queasy. Maybe it was just being _here_ , amongst the modest possessions of a dead man, but he felt a presence somehow. As though the walls themselves were watching him, accusingly, perhaps. _You don’t belong here_ , they said. The ghosts in the walls had seen fit to warn him of that trap, though, Harry thought, still feeling an odd flutter in his chest remaining from the shock that had passed through him just before he’d tried to step in. He was fairly certain that tripwire was not an observation he’d have managed to make on his own, even if he hadn’t been distracted.

Harry inhaled deeply to steady himself, which he immediately regretted, having taken in a lungful of debris. His eyes watered with the effort of suppressing a cough, trying to remain quiet even though he knew Hermione had cast a silencing charm outside. An overabundance of caution, perhaps, or out of reverence for the space he was intruding, he wasn’t entirely sure himself. The low ambient light along with the dusty and slightly mildewy air gave him subtle reminders of his own childhood dwelling, as this house rather felt like a larger (but just as claustrophobic) version of the cupboard under the stairs where he’d grown up, only there were a lot more interesting things than toy soldiers lying about. 

His eyes passed over several strange-looking curios on the mantle above the barren fireplace, the bookcases which seemed to fill every available inch of free space, the occasional photograph faded into obscurity. _Remnants of a man I never really knew._ He wistfully fingered the crystal vial in his coat pocket, choking down yet another wave of lachrymose that tended to haunt him whenever he thought about Snape too much. _Hardly something I can avoid here._

Reminding himself that he had work to do, Harry purposefully strode over to a threadbare armchair that was positioned near the fireplace, and set the papers he was carrying on top of its cushion. He then started fishing out a stack of tiny cardboard boxes from Hermione’s beaded bag, which he procured from his other coat pocket, and unshrunk them. The fully-sized boxes landed with a soft thump on the floor, sending up a small cloud of yet more dust. Harry covered his nose with his sleeve, and pointed his wand hand at the boxes again, labeling them. 

Unsure of where to begin other than where he was currently standing, he reached for a tarnished metal frame from the mantle, glancing at it as he went to place it in the newly-labeled box. The recognizable face of an older, but no less dour Eileen Prince (or rather, likely Snape at this point, he corrected himself) was staring back at him with dark eyes. She was unmoving and had barely retained any colour. A muggle photograph. Snape’s mother. Harry swallowed thickly.

“Harry, it’s probably best if you don’t touch anything,” Hermione’s soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “it’s possible some of these things are trapped or enchanted in some way.”

She was using her wand to float stacks of books off their shelves and arranging them neatly into the boxes he had placed. Harry nodded silently and placed the photograph gently into a separate box, assigning it another label, and followed her lead, levitating items off the shelves and into their containers. The silence stretched into long minutes between them as they worked, disturbed only by the patter of rain on the windows and the occasional passing of a car on the street out front. Harry could feel Hermoine glancing his way once in a while, but he didn’t particularly want to see the empathetic look he knew she had, so he did not return her gazes.

“I know it’s difficult,” she shattered the silence again, “but it’s good of you to do this. I’ve no doubt people will come poking their obnoxious noses around here once that awful woman’s book comes out today.”

“It’s not entirely legal, though.” Harry acknowledged, finally managing to croak speech out of his dry throat.

“No,” she replied sedately, “but given the lack of a will or any living relatives, I rather think even Professor Snape would acquiesce to you tidying up his…” her eyes darted quickly around the shabby room, “…estate, as opposed to letting it be picked over and manhandled and who knows what else by ne’er-do-wells that would be entirely less considerate.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a few moments, glaring at a chipped vase he was putting away. When he did finally reply, it was through gritted teeth.

“I _rather think_ that Snape—”

“ _Professor_ Snape.”

“—was fully aware of how precarious his position was, and ought to have been _considerate_ enough to set his own affairs in order. I don’t know if he even cared if people went through his things.”

“But _you_ care, Harry.”

“And a damn time I’ve had of it too,” Hermione jumped slightly as the vace dropped loudly into the box as Harry went to retrieve another item, “Ministry refusing to take pensieved memories or the testimony of portraits as evidence. Uncovering all sorts of criminal charges for things I knew nothing about. Having both our credibilities questioned every step of the way. And for what, exactly?” Another item flew into the box a bit too roughly.

“An acquittal and talk of a posthumous Order of Merlin for one thing…”

“Sensationalized tabloid articles and unauthorized biographies for another.” Thunk.

“Harry…”

“Probably would just tell me to mind my own damn business, anyway.” A tinkling of shattering glass, “Dammit, _Calix Reparo_.”

Hermione sniffled, and he didn’t dare look at her face. Grabbing another box, he swiftly strode over to the adjoining room and addressed her without turning back, “You stay in here and keep an eye on the door like we discussed, I’ll clear out the kitchen.”

“…I understand.”

—

Severus remained impassively where he was by the fireplace as Harry strode angrily into his meager kitchen. Though he felt tugged again as though on an invisible leash, the house was small enough that it appeared he wasn’t obligated to follow at this distance. Being more intrigued by the papers that had been placed upon his chair, he returned his attention to them. 

On a bit of lettered stationary was his address and a hand-drawn map of the street. In Narcissa’s flowy handwriting, he surmised. _That’s curious_ , he thought to nobody in particular. He wasn’t aware of Potter being on any sort of amicable terms with the Malfoys. Under that, a number of stuffy-looking legal documents he could neither see in entirety nor brush aside. A partially unfurled copy of The Daily Prophet betrayed a few headlines from its hiding place on the bottom.

**Memorial Service and Monument Dedication to be Held at Hogwarts for 53 Slain in Last Month’s Bloody Battle.** Beating though it no longer was, he felt his leaden heart sink into his stomach at the litany of familiar faces, most entirely too young, staring up at him from their small square photographs like some gruesome yearbook. Weasley, Tonks…Lupin (Hadn’t they just had a baby?)...students, Order members, colleagues…Not all he could name, practically none he had any particular love for, and all of whom had surely died hating him, but so many…

**Mass Trials Continue for Surviving Death Eaters, Minister Shacklebolt Declares—** This headline was cut off by the papers lying on top, though several more familiar faces stared back at him, murder in their eyes. The Dark Lord was dead, surely, if Potter currently lived. But then…why was Potter still here if that was true? 

From a smaller corner article, a picture of his own ugly face was sneering back at him, **Rita Skeeter Exposes Ex-Headmaster, Panned Potions Professor, and Slippery Spy in New Exposé, Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?**

He snorted in derision, though to his repeated chagrin, it still made no sound. He might have guessed Potter had spilled his guts to this Skeeter, but that likely notion appeared to be struck down by the conversation he’d just overheard. Nevertheless, Potter was forever prying into all the things about himself that he wished to keep private. The perverse indignity of being made to watch, unable to do or say anything about any of it made him wring his hands in anxiety. Indeed, what _did_ he care if his house was trashed or his name smeared across the papers? Clearly, he was dead, and whatever powers that be had decided that merely being dead wasn’t shameful enough to boot. 

Come to think of it, how had he died exactly, anyway? Severus reached up unsteadily to touch his neck again with thin, shaking fingers, feeling as though there ought to be an answer there, but not finding it. 

Granger paused in her efforts to pack away the endless piles of books, having taken notice of a familiar and stained leather-bound photo album that was falling apart from its binding. Ignoring her own advice, per usual, she grasped it delicately and opened it to its center, smiling sadly as she glanced over the pictures. Severus stormed over to her in a fury and attempted to slap it out of her hands, but his form just passed through hers impotently. At first he thought she might have noticed, because she let out a startled gasp. What she had reacted to, however, was a small picture that had escaped out from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor and drifted out of reach under one of the bookcases before she was able to catch it.

“Oh no…” she griped, setting the album gently down into a box Potter had labeled _For Burial._ Steadying her weight with one hand against an empty shelf, she crouched down to summon the photo, but nearly lost her balance as the something mechanical behind the bookcase clicked inward and then opened towards her with a groaning creak of metal hinges. 

_Merlin, of all the luck…_ Severus pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Harry,” she called out, peering curiously up into the darkness that engulfed a narrow and partially broken staircase laying hidden behind the trick door, “can you come here a moment?”

Potter emerged from the kitchen as the girl idly pocketed the fallen photo and climbed to her feet. She pulled the door open further and inclined her head in the direction of the staircase.

“I’ve found a passage upstairs; do you want to take a look?”

“Not particularly, but I suppose I ought to.”

“Take your time,” she murmured, backing away and returning to the thankless task of book-packing. 

Potter tentatively approached the staircase, and much to Severus’ own discomfort, walked straight through him. The boy paused and shivered almost imperceptibly, squinting into the darkness as he felt around for a handhold of some kind. Hesitating a few moments longer, he resigned to simply steadying himself along the wall of the corridor before beginning his ascent.

With a long-suffering sigh, Severus followed him up, just as reluctantly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 5/11/20: Updated. Thanks to [NaioKiara](https://naiokiara.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading!

Harry took each step with trepidation, as the wood was cracked or buckled in some places and groaned ominously under his weight. It was too dark to see exactly where his feet were, so he felt around with them, testing their placement and pressure. Ever so slowly, he made his way upstairs, where there was a bit more light filtering in from a window at the end of the hallway landing. 

Equally as cramped as the first floor, he doubted if two people would be able to pass each other in this hallway, despite counting three doors adjoining it. He brushed aside some peeling wallpaper and a few cobwebs, wondering how long this place had been abandoned. The level of neglect suggested several years, but Harry had found the remains of some food in the kitchen that he noted were only a few months out of date before he vanished them.

On his left, a brass-handled door was partially ajar, leading to a barren lavatory with only the most basic of facilities. There didn’t appear to be anything worth saving in there at first glance, so he left it well-enough alone. Along the right, another door lay partially torn off its hinges, a severe-looking series of gashes made by something razor-sharp scarred into the wood, and what Harry suspected might be flecks of dried blood painted the wall around it. He flicked his wand to scourgify them away, taking some of the wallpaper’s design with it. He didn’t care to dwell on it too much. 

Upon pushing his way through the debris, his face scrunched up and he covered his nose with his sleeve again as his senses were assaulted with the nearly unbearable fetor of rotten food, stale body odour, and Merlin-knows-what-else. Discarded food wrappers, empty potion bottles, and bed linens littered the floor as well as a thoroughly broken metal-framed double bed that had collapsed in the center, rusty springs protruding from a filthy mattress that was stained with what was hopefully _just_ blood. This bedroom had been fairly recently occupied.

_Surely Snape wouldn’t live in such a…rat’s nest_ , Harry speculated. Whatever misgivings he still had about his former professor, he’d never known Snape to be anything but tidy and detail-oriented: to an annoying degree, really. Certainly nothing to suggest this level of squalor. 

Questions notwithstanding, he decided to continue braving the stench to investigate a bit more. He cautiously stepped over the rubbish on the floor to get to the single window in this room, pulling a moth-eaten curtain back a tiny bit to let in some more light. The next house over was very close, not allowing much in the way of additional illumination, but what little there was revealed a relatively untouched chest of drawers across from the bed, upon which were a variety of cheap-looking perfume bottles, knickknacks, and another series of dusty and damaged photo frames. He produced and enlarged another box, gently levitating the items into it, occasionally punctuating the silence with a tinkling of broken glass that fell from the damaged photos and gently scattered upon the floorboards. 

Feeling horribly intrusive, he opened one of the drawers, trying to ignore the crawling sensation that the ghosts in the walls were decidedly upset with him. Some jewelry, women’s clothing that appeared several decades old, all unmistakably Muggle in appearance and nothing that looked to be of any value, but he packaged it away all the same. 

Hermione’s words about no living relatives echoed obtrusively in his mind as he worked. _What an awful waste, to have nobody to pass anything along to._ None of this stuff meant anything to Harry, and it wasn’t as though he had much in the way of experience with family heirlooms aside from his father’s cloak. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to Snape either; he would never know either way. Regardless, he’d already resolved before coming here that he would not allow every sad and unsavory detail of the man’s life to be pilfered through like some crypt, the way his own parents’ dwelling in Godric’s Hollow had, he recalled with no small amount of bitterness bubbling in his gut. If Harry’s burden for the rest of his life was to be entrusted with salvaging what remained of Snape’s dignity, then so be it. It was a small price to pay for everything he had done for him over the years. 

_Not that you ever got a chance to make amends with him_ , a niggling voice whispered in his thoughts. Harry twitched his head at the voice, as though shooing a fly. 

Satisfied that there was nothing important remaining in this room that he suspected had once belonged to Snape’s parents long ago, he folded the box shut and shrunk it down for transport, placing it back into the beaded bag. Though it took him a couple of attempts, and some clumps of stuffing and a few bits of springs were left behind in a heap due to his lack of skill, he vanished most of the mattress and its suspicious discolourations. Whatever had transpired here would probably mean more paperwork for Harry, and he really just did _not care_ anymore. 

There was only one room left to explore, and anticipating who it belonged to made him feel as though he might shortly become reacquainted with his morning toast. He stepped back around the broken door and approached the other room on the left side of the hallway. He reached stupidly for the handle, before being seized with the forethought that reminded him to _not be so thick_ and pulled his hand back with a jolt. Fishing his wand back out of his coat, he ran it along the doorframe, feeling the edges with his magic. Sure enough, it was warded.

_With runes, no less,_ he frowned at the crudely knife-cut symbols that had begun to emerge in the wood, _pompous bastard._

The muffled sound of movement downstairs brought to mind that he should probably get Hermione to help him with this particular barrier. Curiously though, as he was running a thumb along the carvings, they glowed faintly and then abruptly disappeared. The door then swung open of its own accord with a rusty squeak. Harry blinked in amazement, unsure of what had just taken place. He poked cautiously at the open doorway with his wand, but felt no further resistance, magical or otherwise. Steeling himself for every possible scenario he could think of, he entered Snape’s room.

What greeted him inside was so decidedly _normal_ , he actually let out an awkward giggle in relief. This room was nearly as tiny as the washroom, and everything but the single bed seemed to be caked in years worth of dust. Aside from a smattering of Slytherin pride here and there, not to mention a few more books stacked about than Harry owned, he would have been hard-pressed to tell this room from his own back at the Dursleys’. 

The window in here faced the uninhabited side of the street and the shades were mostly open, so it was a bit brighter than the rest of the house. A couple of vinyl records, their covers bleached by sunlight, lay haphazardly tossed across a long crate that, judging by the spartan chair pushed in front of it, had been used as a desk. Wondering what sort of music Snape would listen to, Harry eagerly beelined for the desk, and nearly had his heart leap from his throat as one of the floorboards snapped upwards under his weight and then fell back into place with a reverberating thwack. The stumble caused his legs to buckle beneath him, and he caught himself mid-fall painfully against the desk to prevent tumbling over entirely. His pulse pounding loudly in his ears, he only just managed to make out Hermione’s voice from the bottom stair.

“You alright, Harry?”

“M’fine. Just tripped,” he called back, trying not to let his voice quaver.

“Be careful, won’t you?” Her nagging and her footsteps faded as she walked away.

Grunting, he pushed himself up and plopped down sitting on the bed, still too shaky to remain upright. Glancing around, his attention was drawn to a clump of dust that had been kicked up by his fall and was floating slowly in front of the window, caught by the emerging sunlight as the fog outside lifted. As he watched it drift, it hit him just then —realization doused over him like a bucket of ice water, of where exactly he was sitting. A memory that had been only the briefest flash, a memory not his own, stolen by accident during a particularly grueling lesson… He could imagine it very easily: being the scrawny, dark-haired boy shooting down flies with his wand in this very spot. Not much younger than he was now. Not much different a person than he was now.

His body went numb at that thought. He no longer felt the pain in his wrist or the lumpy mattress beneath him. All that existed within him had been replaced by an all-consuming grief that expanded so quickly, he could not fully comprehend it. It crushed his chest with a weight that threatened to rip the breath from his lungs. He’d been fighting this for weeks - why _right now_ , with all of these ghosts watching him? Unable to staunch the tears that had begun to flow unbidden off his chin and pool thickly with the dust on the floor, he gave himself over to the waves of sobs that rolled over and over him, unrelenting. Desperately not wanting to be heard, he tried to smother the sound into his jeans, curling his knees up to his chest and clutching them to his face.

_It’s not bloody fair_ , he raged silently, hating how pitiful his own voice sounded in his mind. _Life isn’t fair,_ the crueler voice that had joined it recently countered, _and now you have plenty of blood on your hands to prove it._ Was this what it felt like, then? What _he_ felt like? The enormous cavity left behind by life cut short, all the things left unsaid, too many regrets to ever be amended? _How does one go on living with such a feeling?_ Even as Harry directed his question at the newer voice, he knew it would not answer him.

—

Severus took another, rather less spirited kick at his bed frame, knowing full well it was fruitless to try to overturn it. Unacceptable enough that his wards had betrayed him, now the boy was _crying_. _On_ _his_ _bed!_

Strangely, just before all this weeping had started, Severus had recalled the summer after fifth year that he’d spent brooding in this very spot following his fight with Lily. That recollection, and perhaps the wretched aura surrounding Potter also, took all the wind out of his sails, and so finally he gave up his futile attempts to make his presence known. He huffed to himself and sat down on the bed next to the boy, running his hands over his face and pinching his eyes, only vaguely aware of the fact that whatever he currently was, he was somehow able to sit on the bed at all. 

Perhaps following the boy around as an ineffective specter for the rest of his afterlife was the personal hell he’d been assigned. Frankly, it wouldn’t be so different from what the last half of his actual life had been, so bugger whoever thought that one up. At least he didn’t have to _teach_ anymore…that thought alone nearly made him also burst into tears— _of happiness_. What was surely a wicked grin crossed his face as he dwelled on that not insignificant mercy. Smiling made him frown again, however.

Since beginning this unusual vigil over Potter, Severus had experienced a wide variety of _feelings_. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t that he was any stranger to them, but particularly since the aforementioned fight with Lily, he’d mostly, ignoring a few exceptions he had no desire to reminisce about at the moment, been able to lock them away for safekeeping when needed. It was a technique that had served him well, allowing him to lie to the face of the greatest dark wizard and legilimens in recent history, not to mention preventing him from flinging himself from the top of astronomy tower on a number of occasions. 

Occluding had become as natural as breathing to him, insofar that they were both required, in Severus’ case, to keep living. Perhaps because he had since stopped breathing, then, or maybe because his current vessel lacked the required mental or magical capacity to do so, but he found himself presently unable to occlude. This was proving a disadvantage under the current circumstances, as Potter kept fumbling with and stumbling over his possessions, infuriating and horrifying him anew every couple of minutes. It was _exhausting_.

He was completely aware of the fact that Potter was apparently trying to tidy up his dirty laundry, with a level of mindfulness that, to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t aware that the boy possessed until now. He was also cognizant of the concept that he had no use of possessions regardless, being dead and all. In spite of these observations, emotions attached to his things swelled violently to the surface each and every time, as though he were being made to relive the memories they carried with them. 

He’d tried to wandlessly hex Potter for breaking his favorite glass. He’d spouted a vile string of curse words at Granger for eyeing his books hungrily. In a rare move, he’d lost all propriety and attempted to physically assault the boy (a suitable target in lieu of Wormtail) when he’d recalled the crime of the destruction of his mother’s bedroom, among _other_ transgressions. He’d never felt so out of control of his own mind and was mortifyingly unable to take out his frustrations on anyone or anything. It was small potatoes, however, compared to the quivering mess he was sitting next to. Severus chanced a glance at Potter again, and sneered. 

The boy was attempting to compose himself, wiping his disgusting, mucus-covered nose with his shirt and sniffling in an obscene manner. With his glasses removed, it was all too easy for Severus’ insides to squirm uncomfortably at the miserable expression etched all over that face that held more familiar features than he’d ever admitted to himself while alive. Surely there were more appropriate places for him to be sad about whatever he was than this room in particular. This had been Severus’ place to be sad; what right did Potter have to co-opt it? 

_Always meddling where you’re not welcome,_ he thought spitefully, attempting to find out if it was possible to melt the boy’s brain with the same force of will behind Potter’s eyes that he’d usually been treated to when his back was turned, and when they hadn’t been wide with fear _of_ him. 

Their mutual antagonism had made everything much easier, in the end. The price of consequence over the years had been high, but it had been necessary for both their sakes. It was of no small significance to Severus that somehow _,_ the boy had _survived_ , sparing him the one last immense sin he’d be damned with, while the rest were carried to his grave in secrecy as he’d anticipated. Potter was free in his ignorance to despise him for the remainder of his life, if it offered him any solace.

Speaking of his charge, he seemed to have regained his senses at last, having stood up and begun packing away the few remaining possessions that littered this hallowed space. Severus longingly watched his _“Heroes”_ LP as it floated by and landed softly into a box. He’d purchased that one with money he’d stolen from Tobias’ drinking funds, he recalled with a swelling of pride, and for once hadn’t gotten caught in the process. The man had disappeared shortly after that, not noticing the theft and never to be heard from again. _And good riddance._

Potter neatly folded a tattered Slytherin banner and placed it off to the side on the bed. _For Burial,_ Severus guessed with another sneer, thoroughly disgusted with the thought of his own funeral. He was entertaining himself by visualizing his body being fed to the thestrals back at Hogwarts when the soft scrape of wood against wood caught his attention. The boy, evidently familiar with crude hiding places, had displaced the loose floorboard he’d tripped over. Well, _bully for him_ , he had cleared that space out long—

To his great surprise, the boy’s hand emerged, procuring a clothbound journal. Severus leapt to his feet, swooping in to get a better look. Potter attempted to open its pages, but was unsuccessful as it appeared the thing had been spelled shut. He tried a variety of counterspells while Severus stared at it, unmoving. It remained defiantly locked, however, and as Severus’ eyes passed over the flowers embroidered on its cover as it disappeared into the boy’s coat, he felt nothing.

He felt nothing…because he did not remember that journal, even a little bit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 5/2/2020: Significant change to the end of this chapter. My apologies for my fickleness, this is still an evolving story.  
> Edit 5/11/20: Updated. Thanks to [NaioKiara](https://naiokiara.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading!

_“Hyacinthoides non-scripta.”_

“What now?”

“Bluebells,” Hermoine said simply, pushing a hot cup of tea towards Harry across the coffee table. “Also sometimes known as fairy flowers.”

_“Fairy flowers?”_ Ron sniggered from the floor in front of the fireplace, sputtering some of his own tea onto the rug.

“Doesn’t exactly fit his image, does it?” Harry glanced up from his reclined position on the ancient sofa and nodded gratefully at Hermione as he picked up the cup and took a sip. He ran his fingers over the faded purplish floral embroidery once again, as though it would finally deign to reveal its secrets if he kept messing with it, like the runes had.

“I’m completely over weird, enchanted books. Best just leave it alone, mate.” Ron relinquished a portion of the cushion he was sitting on to make room for Hermione as she sat down next to him and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Or stick another basilisk fang in it,” he added under his breath.

The sitting room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place was briefly illuminated in bright white light. After a few moments, thunder rolled in the distance and rain continued to pound against the windows. Truth be told, Harry was inclined to agree with Ron at this point, keenly recalling his mixed fortunes with certain diaries and potions books. _Friendly, helpful, dangerous, treacherous, destroyed…gone._ He tossed the journal into the fire.

“Harry!” Hermione admonished him, fishing it out of the heatless enchanted flames and dusting soot off of the cover. “Let’s decide on it later, when you’re not so—”

“Mental?” Ron interjected.

“I was going to say _emotional_ ,” she countered. Harry glared at both of them. It was pointless trying to deny it though, as his eyes were still all red and puffy from this morning. 

They’d ended up having to abandon their efforts early as someone had called the local police to investigate the house, probably having spotted one of them in the windows. Luckily, their escape plan had been seamless and all that had to be abandoned was furniture, which wasn’t worth the risk of returning for. Everything potentially damaging or dangerous was in the stacks of boxes that contained a disproportionate amount of books, currently heaped in a corner of the room and temporarily forgotten. Harry didn’t have the energy to go through them today.

They sat in subdued conversation for a while, with Harry mostly silent. The storm blew itself out until it was little more than background noise by the time it had grown late, and soon the interior was bathed in a turquoise light as the sun began to set. 

“How _are_ your parents doing, anyway?” Something forcefully insistent in Ron’s tone of voice snapped Harry out of his daze.

“Oh, you know…” Hermione nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, glancing sideways at Harry, as though unsure of how he’d react. “They’re doing better. A bit at a time.”

“…Your parents?” He sat up from the couch, feeling a fresh wave of guilt begin pooling up from within. “I thought you said getting their memory charms reversed was successful?”

“It was successful…mostly. It’s nothing to worry about,” she fidgeted and glanced around, looking for an exit to this line of conversation.

“The healers at St. Mungo’s said it’s going to take a while to fix the damage,” Ron urged on without remorse.

“Damage?” Harry’s teacup hit the saucer with a loud noise as he stood up, looking at Hermione with a horrified expression.

“Harry. I promise, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” she sighed, giving Ron a quick glare, “It’s just…reversing a memory charm, one that takes a lot away, especially, isn’t just as simple as waving a wand and undoing it. I wiped their entire memory of me. It’s slow-going and they’re not very quick to trust me right now. I’ve been assured that, with time, they’ll come around in the end… It’s not as bad as what happened to Lockhart.”

“…Hermione, I’m so sorry…” he started. She put up a hand to silence him.

“It was _my_ choice, wasn’t it? You’ve got enough on your plate at the moment, I didn’t want to worry you any further.”

Harry crossed the rug and reached out to grasp her hand and help her off the floor, pulling her into a familial hug. “I know I’m useless, but if there’s anything I can do, _please_ ask.” He spotted the stack of boxes over her shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything that might be of help.” She squeezed him gently and nodded.

“We’d best get back to the Burrow; it’s past supper,” she said quietly. “You coming tonight?”

“Ginny’s been asking after you,” Ron added. “She’s been a bit lonely.”

“Next time,” Harry withered a bit under the sharp look Ron gave him. “Tomorrow, even. _I promise,_ ” he shrugged and smiled weakly, “I’m exhausted, anyway. Wouldn’t be great company.”

After goodbyes were said, and Hermione had gone ahead through the Floo, Ron paused before entering the fireplace and then suddenly rounded on him with an uncharacteristically inscrutable expression in his eyes.

“Harry…I don’t presume to understand exactly what you’re going through… This last month has been very hard for everybody and I’m worried about you…But I’m worried about Hermione, and Ginny, and Mum, and everyone else too.”

“I’m _fine_ , Ron—”

“No, you’re not…None of us are. No one in their right mind would be. You need to remember that you’re not the only one who has suffered and lost—”

_“I know that!”_ Harry bristled indignantly.

“—and that’s why we need to stick together on this,” Ron talked over him without missing a beat, “You can’t keep it all in all the time by yourself and ignore everyone around you. You need us as much as we need you…or something like that…” he trailed off noncommittally.

“…Tomorrow. I promise.”

Ron nodded, and then pulled Harry into an awkward attempt at a brotherly embrace which lasted just a moment too long for both their tastes, before patting him on the back with a chuckle and breaking apart. 

“I’m holding you to that, or I’m coming back with Mum and her corned beef sandwiches.”

“I’m not sure if you meant that as encouragement or a threat.”

“Both.”

—

From the Great Hall way back in the distance drifted the faint, beautiful melody of a choir and indistinct hubbub that might have been laughter. There were more people than anyone in recent memory could recall staying here for the holidays, owing to the great cause for celebration still at the forefront of the collective wizarding consciousness. The decorations were extra lavish as well, as the headmaster was putting on an impressive show of festive colour and light even after making the rare move of allowing family visitors. The whole thing ended up something like a massive party that lasted long into the evening.

Severus detested parties, though, and he had no family left. Severus had nothing except a vow.

It was bitterly cold out here by the lake, and despite his heavy woolen cloak and scarf, he had been shivering uncontrollably for a while. He’d never carried an acceptable amount of body fat even at the best of times, which these were decidedly not. It might have helped if he’d at least had something warm to drink, but just looking at the feast back inside the castle had made him feel ill. Thus, he’d found himself absconding entirely and had instead trudged a path through the pristine, untouched snow out to his old hideaway by the lake. His tracks were slowly disappearing under the heavy fall of new snow, he noted blankly. 

_All of them erased…gone…lost…_

Another great shudder sent snowflakes cascading from the top of his inky head, their crystalline structure faintly catching the distant colour of fairy lights on the way down like some kind of absurd tinsel. _Happy Christmas to me_ , he thought rancorously. 

Severus had actually had a number of Happy Christmases in the past, though not many. He’d passed the indeterminate hours reminiscing on them. There had been the warm smile his Mum had given him one particular year when he was very little that they’d had a bit more money and she’d actually presented a wrapped gift to him. New shoes, he remembered, trying to curl his numb toes in his thoroughly worn boots. A practical gift, but a novel rarity for him at the time. Even greater a novelty had been that genuine smile.

_I wonder if she’s able to smile more now that she’s free of me and Toby?_

_Where is your mum now?_ A troublesome voice nagged at him unexpectedly. _I’ve no idea_ , he realized. He was drawing a vast and unnatural void when he tried to remember why she wasn’t coming back. Another thought floated to the surface in its place. _Reggie’s never coming back either…_ though he found a similar hole in his memory as to the reason. 

_…You knew Regulus?_

_Of course_ he knew Regulus, he’d been a loyal companion and, dare he say it, good friend during those bleak times when he’d realized he was rather in over his head with the whole movement. Reggie used to get him the occasional gift too, actually. Rather funny when you think about it: Death Eater gift exchanges. The voice snorted in stifled laughter.

The laughter reminded him of Lily, which curdled the momentary respite he’d found out here in the cold. There was the anguish once more, as fresh as the new snow. He might have started crying again, but he had nothing left to give, it seemed. Just the emptiness within him, slowly freezing every place in his heart that it touched. Lily’s smile, Lily’s silly little gifts, Lily’s eyelashes twitching as he’d nearly worked up the nerve to kiss her under the mistletoe a few years back, before he destroyed everything. 

Severus felt tiny icicles being driven through his hands, his overly large nose, and the rest of his extremities before suddenly going blissfully, comfortably numb all over his body. He was vaguely aware that he’d stopped shivering a while ago, to which some clinically detached part of him reprimanded him that he ought to have cast a warming charm on himself. But the snow was so, so soft and he hardly felt the impact when his body toppled over into it. Lying here forever wouldn’t be so bad, after all, if he didn’t have to _feel_ anything.

_Wait, you can’t do this!_ _Get up!_ The irritating voice broke through the haze of his catatonia. Severus twitched, but his body would no longer obey him. The lights in the castle had gone out some time ago, too, given the absence of their colourful glow as his black eyes dilated and remained fixed towards that direction. It had gone very quiet. 

_Too late, sorry._ He didn’t really feel all that sorry, however. He told the voice spitefully, _Add it to the list of my failures._

_You promised…someone, though, didn’t you? Swore to protect them?_

_What of it? It doesn’t matter anymore._

_You matter, dammit! Get the hell up and keep your promise!_

If only to get the voice to shut up, Severus tried again, but his legs were useless and all he managed to do was roll over face first into the snow. It felt enchantingly like that kiss he’d almost stolen against his thin and frozen lips. His resolve dissolved again with the comfort that brought.

_GET UP, you miserable git!!_

Oh, Severus was _angry_ now. How dare this unwelcome, disembodied voice command him _not_ to die? That anger funneled into his stiffened limbs, and he managed to finger his wand loosely in its wrist holster. Attempting to lash out at the voice, albeit pitifully, he managed to conjure a weak shower of red sparks that sputtered briefly in the air around him. 

_Showed you, then_. He snorted a muffled laugh into the snow, kicking up a few flakes with his breath.

Somewhere nearby, a dog was barking, though it sounded strangely distorted, as though it was coming from underwater. He heard more voices, male, then a feminine shout, footfalls crunching in the snow. Blackness overtook him as they approached, and soon he was aware no more.

—

Severus awoke in considerable pain, uncomfortably warm and bare from the waist up, and feeling strangely weighed down on his arms and legs. He tested his fingers and found them constrained loosely by a wrapping of some sort. As his senses came back to him, his nostrils filled with the nostalgic scent of clean linen and something pungent and herbal. Matronly hands pressed something wet to his face that made the herbal scent overpowering and stung his skin a bit. He squinted through bleary, half-open eyes.

“Mum?” he croaked.

“Och, _that’ll_ be the day,” came a familiar snappy lilt.

The rush of hot blood all the way up to his temples brought with it extraordinary clarity of mind. He flailed frantically, attempting to flee, but found himself unrepentantly knocked back into the pillow with magic and let out an unseemly _oof_.

“Oh no y’don’t. Poppy will have my head in the Boxing Day pudding…Once she sleeps off all the pastis, that is.”

Severus gathered up a cocoon of sheets over his naked torso with heavily poulticed fingers, glaring resolutely at the ceiling that was slowly illuminated by the morning sunlight and refusing to make eye contact with his makeshift caregiver. He felt humiliatingly like a student again under her stare. “My apologies, Professor.” 

“You gave us quite a fright, young man. What on earth were you thinking? And don’t y’dare say you were just out on a _wee stroll_ , with the sorry state we found you in.”

His mouth snapped shut. _Well, there goes that excuse._ McGonagall’s pointed gaze bore more deeply into the side of his head the longer he took to come up with a story, but that was no shock. Despite Dumbledore’s word after his trial, she scarcely trusted Severus farther than she could throw him, and who could blame her, really? Nothing good would ever come of faith in someone like him.

“Don’t want to talk about it? Guilt on your conscience?” 

_Always_ , he thought. “I made an error in judgement. I’m perfectly fine.”

It must have been the wrong response, for she stood up very briskly and snatched a potion vial off the tray next to his bed with a clatter, uncorking it and thrusting it under his nose. “Very well. You’ll have no sympathy from me, Professor Snape.”

“I appreciate _that_ ,” he quipped. 

Careful not to abandon his cocoon, he awkwardly arranged himself into a partially upright position, thankfully without interference this time. He took the potion and tilted it back, immediately making a sour face. One of Slughorn’s inferior brews of Pepperup from just before he’d up and quit rather unexpectedly two months ago. He’d evidently used immature mandrake root in his haste; Severus was reluctant to consume it.

He finally met McGonagall’s eyes as he handed the empty vial back, mouth still full of Pepperup. He truly must have looked terrible or ridiculous, or perhaps both, for something in her expression had become facetious when she took it from him.

“Five galleons,” the crinkles around her bespectacled eyes deepend as she gave him a mischievous little smile, “on the outcome of the next Quidditch match, which so happens to be between our houses, as I’m sure y’know.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her, and she continued, “If y’win, I’ll let you in on the other _errors in judgement_ that were made around the staff table last night.”

Severus lost a few dribbles out of the corner of his mouth in an attempt to not spit it out entirely, doubling over and eventually swallowing with an enormous amount of effort. He was sure he’d turned another unnatural shade of red. 

“And if I lose?” he asked cooly, steam beginning to issue out of his ears.

When she did not reply after a moment, he glanced up. McGonagall was not there, nor was the hospital wing. The shift had been so immediate that he could only stare blankly in surprise. He found himself propped up instead against the sofa on the floor of Grimmauld Place, with the boy shifting in his sleep behind him, snoring softly. Catching the light of the fire as it rolled to a stop on the rug next to him, a little crystal bottle with some substance in it obscured by the glare had tumbled out of the coat Potter was using as a blanket. 

And clutched loosely between Severus’ blistered fingers, a glowing sprig of violet flowers he knew instantly to be bluebells, slowly dissolving into light as they disappeared from his grasp.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 5/11/20: Updated. Thanks to [NaioKiara](https://naiokiara.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading!

“You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks Ginny,” Harry replied sarcastically.

“I’m talking about the dark circles under your eyes. Haven’t been sleeping again?” Ginny finished tightening Harry’s tie and began futilely attempting to get some of his unruly hair to lay flat.

“I have been sleeping a bit, actually. But I keep having strange dreams and wake up feeling more drained than I did before I went to bed. Been about the same effect, really.”

Ginny’s brows furrowed at the mention of dreams, “You don’t think…”

“No…” When her frown deepened, he gently pried her hand from his head and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb, coaxing a more reassuring tone out of his voice, “No, he’s gone, Ginny. They’re not anything like those were. Haven’t felt so much as a tickle from my scar.”

“I don’t doubt that…that’s not what I meant,” warm amber eyes studied his face all over, looking for the right words to say, as though there were flies buzzing around his head.

“You know, Hermione has taken up an interest in muggle psychology lately…about the effects loss and trauma can have on a person. I don’t understand a lot of the terms she goes on about, but talking it out with her has really been helping me. Mum and Dad too.”

“I don’t—”

“I _know_ you don’t want to talk about it with us. You’ve made that perfectly clear,” she snipped, losing patience with him more quickly every time they had this particular conversation. “Maybe you could read about it though, or talk to somebody impartial…”

“What, like a mind-healer? Don’t know if I trust someone fiddling about in my brain after these last few years.”

“You have to start trusting in _someone_ , Harry.”

“I do trust—” 

He was thankfully saved from further confrontation when Hermione walked over with her handbag and produced a small bottle with gusto. His nostrils were then assaulted by some kind of chemical smell as she began attacking Harry’s face with a little applicator.

“Uhg, what is _that_?” 

“Concealer,” she huffed, rubbing the gooey substance under his eyes and then giving him a couple of slightly-too-hard pats on the cheek, “You’re up next.”

“Wish me luck,” he groaned.

“Don’t need to. I wrote most of your speech, you twit.”

— 

Harry tried to keep himself focused by counting the number of people in the crowd who had dozed off as he plodded his way through the long eulogy. It was difficult to maintain a balance of being detached enough to stay composed and yet heartfelt enough to sound sincere, and he suspected he was not entirely succeeding with either. The crowd was a sea of faces, and for every pair of living eyes he could see, still just as vivid in his mind were the eyes of the corpses of their relatives and friends with the light all gone out from them.

“—Let this monument stand,” he gestured to the massive marble and bronze phoenix behind the stage, its gleaming wings unfurled in triumph against the ruins of Hogwarts in the distance and over the names of the fallen inscribed at its base, “as an eternal reminder of their sacrifice, so that we may never again repeat the tragedies that caused them to lay down their lives. Instead, we must rise from the ashes of sorrow and adversity and bigotry to forge ourselves in the fires of love and acceptance that will help us build a brighter future for all.” Harry surveyed the crowd one last time to scattered applause and murmuring before stepping down from the podium. 

In his eagerness to flee the limelight, he almost missed them, and his heart nearly stopped when he caught the familiar pair of black eyes glancing up at him from behind a veil. Willing his legs to work and nearly tripping over his dress robes, he unsteadily made his way toward the dispersing congregation. He must have gone pale, for Ron had come up to check on him. Nothing he said made Harry’s notice, however, and he rushed past him without so much as a glance. 

Pushing his way through the mass of black-attired bodies, he struggled to keep sight of his target in its modest and simple black robe. Just when he was about to give up, the frail-looking figure suddenly appeared at a distance from his line of sight with its back to him, alone and nearly ready to apparate.

“Mrs. Snape! Please wait!” he called out, dashing up to meet her.

She turned around abruptly at his voice, and as she had removed her large sun hat and veil, he could see her pitch-coloured hair was generously flecked with grey and pulled securely into a bun without so much as a single flyaway. She eyed him scrutinizingly with a shrewd stare, which she quickly arranged into a cordial look of indifference after glancing at his scar. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid you have the wrong woman,” she addressed him in a stern-sounding but otherwise pleasantly silvery voice. 

“Oh! Um…” Harry, dazed and lacking a knack for manners, wiped the cold sweat from his palm on his trousers and reached out to gently shake her hand. “I apologize…but I don’t believe I’ve mistaken you. I recognize you…from some pictures I’ve seen. Is it…?” 

“Ms. Prince,” she offered, returning the handshake with loosely-gripped bony fingers. “I wasn’t aware that a hero of the wizarding world should know me from anywhere, but it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he smiled at her in what he hoped was a charming way, “I was a student of Professor Snape’s, and to be perfectly honest, I consider him just as much a hero of the war as anyone, if not more…” when his endeavor to lead the conversation with flattery was met with a vacant stare, he continued, but with a nervous stutter breaking his voice somewhat. “I was hoping I might ask you about him…it so happens I have some of his things and—”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with me, I’m afraid,” she cut him off, both hands tensely clenching the brim of her hat and looking very much as though she wished to leave. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“I just thought…well, we believed Professor Snape to have no living relatives. As his mother, I thought—”

“I beg your pardon,” her voice had taken on an icy edge, and her dark eyes were now wildly darting about for an excuse to escape, “I can assure you, I do not _have_ a son, and unless you have some business with me, I really must be going.”

When she turned abruptly on her heel to leave, Harry moved to catch her by her delicate upper arm, but she flinched rather violently away from his hand. Slowly, she fixed a pointed glare upon him once again, and he was taken aback by what appeared to be a total absence of understanding behind those eyes. “Prof—Severus Snape, he was your son with…Tobias Snape…wasn’t it?”

A long silence stretched between them, and for a moment Harry thought he might have gotten through to her. Her tightly drawn features were pinched in deep concentration as though she were on the verge of recalling something very important. 

“I…” she stammered, looking for a moment as though she were vaguely in pain. He might have imagined it however, for her expression all at once had become vacuous. 

“I have never been married…I do not have a son…and I’m not to be seen in public…” she repeated wispily, eyes fixed somewhere faraway and lightless. It was a type of expression Harry was intimately familiar with.

“……My apologies, I’m sorry to trouble you,” he lowered his head in a short bow as an awkward attempt at courtesy, “I won’t keep you any longer, then…It really was good to meet you.”

She held him in that fathomless stare for a long time, searching. When she spoke again, her voice had returned to its former demeanor, “Indeed. Good day to you, Mr. Potter.”

“Good day, Ms. Prince.” 

With that, she turned and apparated. 

Harry stood there still staring at the place she had been standing when he felt Hermione’s warm hand on his shoulder. She and Ron had been standing just off to the side and behind him, and he could see behind them that Ginny was also making her way over. 

“Been standing there long?”

“A bit,” Hermione nodded, “I recognized her as well.”

“What do you make of it?”

“She’s been obliviated,” she said softly, chewing her lip.

“Yes…I think so too,” Harry replied.

— 

Severus licked his dry lips and glanced restlessly down the dimly lit alleyway, waiting for someone. He despised London with its oppressive atmosphere, thick pollution, and entirely too many people skittering to and fro like ants in an intricately designed terrarium. They could decorate it with all the coloured lights in the world but that wouldn’t change the fact that these ants liked to nibble each other's heads off for the barest of reasons. The wizarding community too lived stacked on top of one another here. Like so many cauldrons, they required only a flick to topple over one another and take out everything around them in the resulting clatter. 

Privately, he wished for vast open fields and forests to explore. His Mum long ago had told him about secret patches of flowers in the woods where if stumbled upon by children, they would be spirited away and never be seen again: a fate he’d thought sounded like heaven at the time. As a much more practical adult who had abandoned the concept of fairy stories, he still knew that all manner of natural magics existed in such places, especially in the plants. Lots of ingredients to gather, and _green_ everywhere.

The sunny fields in his mind dissolved back into the night of London as a group of inebriated pub goers who had just exited through the rear door of a nearby building raucously blabbered amongst themselves. His face contorted in disgust and he glanced away as one of them began to take a leak on the wall. He wanted to relocate, but it was a safer bet to just attempt to blend in with the shadows and attract as little attention as possible.

Unfortunately, drunk pricks always seemed to be drawn to him when all he wanted was to go unnoticed. He heard the man spit and the pull of a zipper.

“Wha’chu lookin’ at, perv?”

“Just insects,” he hissed maliciously, fingertips brushing the tip of his wand hidden inside his cuff. How easy it would be to simply stamp them out as such, too. 

The other men whistled jeeringly, and the wall-pisser inflated himself like some ridiculous baboon as he sauntered drunkenly towards Severus, “Dear me, it sounds like this wanker wants words with us! Shall we oblige ‘im, boys?”

Indeed, what words would be suitable to waste upon rubbish such as this? As they approached, Severus straightened himself with a look of defiance, abandoning what little remained of his pretense of remaining inconspicuous. He started going over a list of his favorite disfiguring spells in his mind…if these idiots knew what kind of terrible man he was, they wouldn’t _dare—_

_Don’t!_ His wand flinched from his grip.

_“Confundo,”_ came a familiar voice from behind him, suddenly.

The approaching drunk stopped in his tracks, looking dazed for a moment. Slowly, he turned back to his cronies. “What did you say, yo-o-ou cunt?!” he slurred, taking a wide, inelegant swing at the one nearest to him, whose mouth had gone agape with shock. 

They began shouting heatedly at each other in the confusion, and the situation quickly escalated into a brawl amongst themselves. Seemingly forgotten, Severus would have hung around to enjoy the entertainment, but he was still puzzling over what exactly had stayed his hand. But he soon found himself led by the wrist into the pub the men had exited before he could dwell on it much. 

“Why are you always spoiling for a pointless fight?” Regulus castigated him as he released his arm, pointing to a table in a far corner that was heavily obscured from view. 

Severus shrugged moodily, making his way over with his friend to the dingy seats and throwing himself into a chair. “Maybe I’ve grown savage from being kept on a leash at all times. They were only _muggles_ , anyway.”

“While I’ve no love for their kind and I’m normally all for you being let off your leash, I _did_ say that I wished to keep a low profile!” Regulus growled under his breath, glancing about the room skittishly. 

Severus nodded stiffly in a manner that might have been interpreted as apologetic by anyone who didn’t know him all that well, which was just about everyone. As it so happened, though, Regulus could be considered one of those few who did, and he appropriately rolled his eyes in response to Severus’ nonchalance.

“I didn’t know you knew any muggle pubs, Reggie,” he muttered offhandedly, ignoring the look he’d earned for his attitude. This place was, at best, a cesspit. The wallpaper was a brocade in a garish shade of red, a colour he particularly hated. Tacky Tiffany lamps hung above the tables were either broken or had long lost the colour of their glass to a thick layer of grime, having achieved nearly the same hue as the mahogany paneling. 

Regulus himself had never been terribly handsome either, but tonight he looked particularly bedraggled. His mismatched attempt at muggle attire was thoroughly wrinkled and his normally tidy hair beyond unkempt. There was also a sickly tinge to his skin as though he’d not eaten properly in a few days and several beads of sweat dotted his furrowed brow. He shot a silencing look at Severus as a waitress approached with several pints of beer. They accepted one a piece, and once she’d left, Severus pushed his mug towards the other man. 

_“Muffliato.”_

“Sometimes it’s best to hide in a crowd, and there’s less of a chance we’ll be recognized here. You know very well the Dark Lord doesn’t take kindly to unsanctioned meetings between his followers…” he added, with a desperate falter in his voice, “and somehow he always manages to find out.”

“Which makes me wonder why I agreed to this in the first place,” Severus complained, running a hand through his own lanky hair.

Regulus didn’t reply right away, instead fishing around in his chest pocket for something. A pack of cigarettes? Perhaps he had stolen them from Sirius. He offered one to Severus, who held up his hand to decline. Regulus produced a tiny flame in his palm to light it, but his hands were shaking so badly he was having difficulty doing so. Severus reached out and clasped the other man’s hand to steady it, and eventually, he succeeded and took a very long drag.

“You are…uniquely qualified to offer me advice in these matters.”

“And what makes you think I won’t just turn you in?”

“I trust you,” he offered simply, taking another puff.

Severus curled his lip disapprovingly and drummed his fingertips on the surface of the table. “Such a thing will surely get us _both_ killed.”

Regulus leaned in uncomfortably close, with tobacco smoke still issuing from his nostrils, and pressed onward, “You do a very good job of hiding how you feel, but we _both_ know the man is insane. Things cannot continue like this!” 

Severus eyed him warily for a long while, and eventually he settled back into his own seat, stamping out the hastily consumed cigarette. “I know you don’t want to get involved. I swear, all I’m asking for is your expertise.”

“That distinction will make no difference to him if we are discovered. It is still treason you are speaking of,” he huffed and made to leave the table. “I should not have come here.”

“Please!” Regulus' trembling hands grabbed at the waistband of Severus’ tattered jeans, and his dark eyes narrowed at the other man’s as they filled with tears, “Severus…Please…Lucius has taken my father into custody and they won’t tell me what’s been done with him. He only suggests that my mother will be next if I don’t cooperate…I-I…”

“Would it not be safer then, to just do as you are asked?” his gaze remained hard, but had imperceptibly softened as Regulus let out a pathetic sob.

“I will…I have no choice, now. But where does it end? Who’s going to stop this, if not me? My family…I can’t let him…” 

Severus whirled on him, anger blossoming across his normally controlled countenance, “And what of _my_ family, Reggie? What assurances can you possibly offer that will make it worth the risk of me placing her in danger for your sake?”

“I wouldn’t have come to you if I hadn’t planned for that,” he wiped his face with his sleeve and swiftly regained his composure as he pulled out another cigarette, “I'm very good with memory charms. I have something that can hide her in ways your occlumency can’t…I can make sure she’s provided for, too.” 

Severus shook his head, dark curtains concealing his fear. “This is utter madness…there’s nothing to be gained…”

“There is _everything_ to lose, though. He’s already proven he has no reservations coming after those that even his most loyal dogs care about,” Regulus stood as well, and Severus stiffened at the contact as he grabbed fistfuls of his dark shirt, clinging to his shoulders, “I beg your trust, Sev, I have no one else to turn to…!”

His mind was a whirlwind, imagining all the possible downfalls of plotting against the Dark Lord. Equally terrifying were the thoughts of what would become of all of them at the end of a loyal service, something he had started pondering nearly the moment that he’d been branded a little over a year ago. _Trust?_ Who could even be trusted? Severus had long learned the hard lesson that the only one he could trust was himself, and even that was debatable.

_Trust him… trust your instincts,_ some laughably soft part of himself urged. 

_Instincts_ …instinct had led the both of them into the welcoming arms, safety, and promises of power offered by Lucius Malfoy’s association to the madman. In his loneliness, he too had spilled every miserable detail about his family to that snake in the grass. Although he didn’t care one whit about what happened to Toby, wherever he was, his _instincts_ asked him how long it would be before Mum became collateral in this dangerous game of war they were all playing. When would he find himself sobbing and prostrating before someone more powerful to protect those that he loved, even if they did not love him in return?

Severus slammed down his barriers against all of those horrible mixed feelings and guided Regulus back into his seat, taking his own again as well. Refusing to meet the other man’s gaze, he instead pointedly eyed his beer, which Regulus began chugging down at this insistence. And for the first time in his life, Severus found himself tempted to drown his own worries in the stuff.

“What _exactly_ is your offer?”

Regulus' face lit up with some small measure of hope, like the light eking out through the Tiffany lamps. He produced something small and bound from inside his jacket.

“This.”

The vision cut off violently this time, as though the object had been forcefully torn from Severus’ memory.


End file.
